


Keep Feeding Me Blood and Honey

by JuniperGreen



Series: I Never Promised You an Open Heart or Charity [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Explicit Language, Forced Feeding, Implied Violence, M/M, Murder, Smut, just a little bit of blood, mild bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-15 02:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7202156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuniperGreen/pseuds/JuniperGreen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From raging madman to pliable little kitten in the blink of an eye. Oh, the wonders food can do. Food and the promise of handcuffs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Get Well Soon's “It's Love”
> 
> Just a little MorMor thingie.  
> I hope you enjoy it.  
> Constructive criticism is always welcome.

The last days had been a chore. I'd never thought I'd miss the war, but London in November must be something the devil invented to make hell seem a more hospitable place. Well, I'd be going there anyway, no need for the advertisement, thank you very much. 

To make things worse, Moriarty had been in a _mood_. The criminal empire was running smoothly, everybody did exactly as told, no trouble in sight, no work for yours truly, the faithful sniper – and no problem for Moriarty to work on. In short: The criminal mastermind was bored. Bored Moriarty meant walking on on tip-toes, hoping he didn't notice you. If he did, it meant pestering, outright torture – or, in my case, fucking. After the last time we'd taken a night off to play and I'd ended up with _my_ knives at _my_ throat, quite unexpected I might say, he was back to his usual game: provoking me till I threw him at the nearest wall, over the desk, the sofa or any random piece of furniture and fucked him into next week. Fucked him and bit him like a rabid dog, 'cause he had this thing for my teeth leaving bruises on his skin. Never where anyone could see them – he'd kill me if I did _that_ \- never any permanent mark. But he knew and I knew they were there, under his impeccable suits, his designer shirts.  
A cure for boredom, all right, but day after day? I wondered how he could still walk.

Then, four days ago, he'd holed himself up in his study and hadn't been seen since. That was even more worrisome. Therefore I was kind of relieved when he finally summoned me up again.

“Moran, there's been a problem,” he started.

So, no fucking today. At least not now. Turned out my professional skills were required, for once. A dog-fight organizer had taken it to his head to keep more than his share of income for himself. I've never really understood why Moriarty, criminal mastermind extraordinaire, bothered himself with something so mundane, so _bo-ring_ as dog-fights – and I wasn't much interested in them myself, the beasts could be put to better use. It's the small things on which big businesses are build, I guess. However, betraying the Boss was never a good idea, no matter how small or large the game, how small or large the amount. It wasn't about the loss of income, it was about the principle. 

So I was sent out to kill the guy. Right this afternoon, when he'd be coming back from his day-job as a construction worker. No subtlety necessary – quite the opposite: he should serve as an example, broadcasting “Don't fuck with Moriarty” to all who were stupid enough not to know already. That meant: kill him and leave his body to be found, in a way that tells nothing to the authorities but everything to the people who know to look for the signs.

“Any questions?”

“Yes.” I hadn't failed to notice the way the Boss looked. Which was not very chipper. His suit and shirt were as immaculate as ever, but his eyes were sunken, with deep, dark circles around them, the sparse facial hair building an even starker contrast to his pale skin. The last bitemarks had to stand out equally stark, more yellow and blue than a reddish purple by now, nevertheless dark bruises on his paleness. I remembered leaving them on his hip, on the inside of his right thigh four nights before. “When was the last time you slept?”

“How's that important for your job?”

“Boss, you are my job. That makes it quite important.”

“Do me a favour and care about your own business. Which is: do as you are told and kill that guy. If you still want to _have_ a job tonight.”

He was jittery, nervous muscles twitching in his face. There were four empty coffee-mugs on his desk, drecks on their bottoms, the machine in his office already bubbling up fresh stuff as we spoke. No sings of food. He probably hadn't slept since he'd locked himself up in here. Probably hadn't eaten, either.

Okay, I'd have to care about that later. Job first, Boss second.

*

It was over fast. Almost disappointing. I got the mark in the small shed behind his house. Didn't even have to wait for long. A simple, brutal job. Enter, kill, dispose of body. Easy. A rookie could've done it. Maybe not as quiet and quick, but this job didn't require skill, didn't require patience. Didn't bring the rush that comes when your gun finally, after hours, sometimes days of stalking, of waiting, finds its mark. When your trigger-finger finally releases the pressure that has been building up for hours, days, in one precise, delicious shot. It didn't bring the heady feeling of finally pressing your knife to your marks skin, at last feeling the blood on your hands, while you see that last look in its eyes, knowing it had been had, knowing all efforts to prevent death have been to no avail, this look that gives on final, last “Oh, fuck!”

This wasn't like that.  
This wasn't _hunting_.

I made it a bit messier than necessary. Without a _real_ job at hand, I might at least indulge myself a bit. When I dragged his body to the street where he'd be found in a few minutes, just as planned – and he was some heavy fellow, legs like barrels, arms like small tree-trunks, not that that did him any good in the end – my shirt was not only drenched in sweat, but covered with a fair bit of his blood. I retrieved my parka, which I'd spared a similar drenching, and zipped it shut. I cleaned the knife with a bit of oilcloth and stuffed it into the guy's mouth. Time to head home.

The metro was swarming with people. Lovely London rush-hour. The time I entered the nearest station, I could already hear the sirens drawing near. The body had been found. Another job gone exactly according to fucking plan.

I smiled at the coppers milling about the station, acutely aware of the blood spoiling my shirt beneath my parka. They didn't have the foggiest. If they stopped me now, for whatever bloody reason, with blood on my shirt and a knife in my pocket, the connection to the fresh body would be made in seconds. My pulse quickened ever so slightly at the thought. Not hunting, no – but at least a decent imitation of that head-rush.

No one stopped me. There was no sudden hand on my back, “Excuse me, sir, could you just wait a minute?” The other passengers stayed unsuspecting during the ride to Conduit Street. A killer in your midst and you go on about business, your shitty job, your ungrateful children, your pathetic little worries. Don't know what it means to take lives, what it means to _live_. I almost laughed in their faces.

*

Back in Conduit Street, I treated myself with a cigarette – no smoking inside the house, oh no, sir – before giving my report. Job done, now to the Boss. Time to indulge us both a bit. He had looked like he needed it.

Moriarty was still in his office. I'd left the parka in the parlour, exposing the blood-stained shirt. I smelled like blood and sweat and gun-oil. I knew what that did to him.

He didn't glance up from his laptop-screen when I entered. "Ah, Moran, everything went as planned.” Not exactly a question. Me being back already told him everything he had to know.

I stepped up behind him. Close. He kept his concentration fixed on his task. Concentrated, but still visibly tired. Bits of code were running across the screen. Hacking has never been my strong suit, but from the look of things he was infiltrating a computer at – Barts, of all places. A lab computer. Whatever he wanted there. Didn't matter, he'd tell me eventually.

My presence finally got him annoyed. He hated people peeking over his shoulder when he worked. Possibly his only normal, human reaction. “Anything else, Moran?”

He looked up – and stopped short when he noticed my shirt. A irritated gleam entered his eyes. “Tell me you did not walk back like this.”

“I took the metro like this.”

Slowly, he got up and grabbed my lapels. His eyes were dark slits: Here there be danger. “Don't leave traces...”

“...unless where traces are required,” I finished for him.

“Where these required?” His voice had lowered, the usual sing-song vanished. He was seriously angry. And, by the way he kept swallowing dryly, although he did a good job to disguise it, I could see he was more than a bit aroused. He liked to see the results of his work. Liked to see them on me. The third time we did it, he had me fuck him right after the kill, the mark still bleeding. Never thought I'd get it up that way, but the head-rush from the kill combined with his neediness to get me inside him plus the need to get away, because some busybody had already called the coppers... anyway, that was when I learned of this particular taste of his. 

“Are you out of your goddamn MIND?” he hissed.

Provocation: two can play that game. I shrugged. “I'm just a mindless predator, Boss. I like the feel of my victims' blood upon me.”


	2. Chapter 2

He slapped me.

I didn't budge. He slapped me again and I could feel my lip tear. I just grinned. He might've been the greatest beast I'd faced, but he had by no means the sharpest claws. 

Another slap. “Mindless, that you are. A mindless, useless NOTHING, Moran.” His voice was seething. “NOTHING!” Another slap. “You'd be in the gutter if I had not dragged you out, gambling and drinking your useless mind away.”

True, but there was nothing to it now. I stepped closer, eliminating the distance between us completely. My grin became bared teeth. Some people get scared by that grin. Some get aroused. Moriarty usually didn't react at all. This time, it made him even more furious. 

“I should have known better than to pick you up,” he spat. I took another step forward, forcing him to back up through sheer bulk. Murder glittered in his eyes.

“I should have known better than to pick up an Army cast-out. Even your father knew better than to want anything to do with you. It should have been a warning.”

It wasn't his most original temper-tandrum. What was more, from this close, his exhaustion was all the more eminent. Murderous fury aside, he looked like he'd collapse every minute. 

Okay, change of plans. 

I took another step. His back hit the wall. “This is not going to work this time,” I whispered in his ear.

He raised his hand to slap me again, but I captured his wrist. Yes, he was fast. I was, too.

I took both his wrists in my hand – they were so slender, a bit more pressure and I could've broken them – and dragged him into my room. The manhandling met almost no resistance.

“What do you think you're doing, Moran?” Still seething, but the edge of his fury had worn of.

I manoeuvred him onto the bed, secured his legs with my knees. 

“Oh, so your small mind keeps coming back to the carnal things after all? Killing and fucking, Se-bas-tian?” He enunciated every syllable of my name with a thrust of his hips. 

“No,” I said simply, hand on his blazer. 

“If you destroy this suit, you will pay for it dearly!”

He should've known better than to make such promises. I ripped blazer and shirt open, tearing the fabric. I _would_ pay for it, it was not idle threat. But not now. I pressed his face into the pillow. He mumbled something that came out unintelligible, but he didn't offer much of a fight. “Yeah, yeah,” I muttered and rummaged through my night-stand for a pair of handcuffs. I clapped his wrists to the bed, ignoring his threats. That should buy me a few minutes.

*

I went to the kitchen and put together everything edible I could find. It wasn't much. Neither of us thought about shopping, and our housekeeper kept busy with her brothel and didn't go if not explicitly ordered to. A bowl of cereals with milk – yep, still good – toast with honey – no butter to be found – two apples and a piece of hard cheese. Marmite? Ugh, no. No one ate it, I had no idea how it ended up in our kitchen anyway. Probably to torture some disobedient employee. Huh, there was a disconcerting thought. I threw the jar away and made a mental note to take out the bin later. Better safe than sorry. 

Taking my meagre exploits I went back to my room. Moriarty had recovered, eyes promising a small and painful death. “What's that?”

I glanced at the tray. “Food.”

“I know it's food. What do you want with it?”

“When's the last time you've eaten?”

“I don't know. This morning. Maybe yesterday.” Liar. “Sebastian, stop treating me like a child.”

I set the tray down on the night-stand. “If you stop acting like a child, I'll let you eat by yourself.”

He let his head fall back against the headrest, apparently defeated. I knew better than to trust his act. “All right,” he said. “Get these off.” He rattled the handcuffs. I released him, carefully taking a few steps back.

Of course he threw the bowl of cereals. 

Missing me by a foot, it shattered at the wall. Shards and cereals flew everywhere, milk painted the light-grey wallpaper. 

I shook my head. “You didn't want it any other way.”

Before he could choose another weapon and waste more food, I was on the bed again and straddled him from behind, wrapping legs and arms around him, rendering him as immobile as it got. I took a bit of honeyed toast and held it to his lips. “Will you eat now?”

He shot me one more threatening look – the one that made kittens and maidens drop dead, thanks whatever being that I'm neither – but complied, taking big bites and munching. I could feel the wrath and the tension leaving his body. 

I made him eat the apples too. Midway through the second, he leaned his head against my shoulder. “Sebastian?”

“Hmh?”

“Why did you have to destroy my suit?”

“Just because.” I nuzzled his ear. “I like to see your skin.”

“Hm. Would you like to see more?”

I cupped his ear with my mouth before breathing “Will you behave?” right into it. “Or do I have to chain you up again?”

A little shudder ran through his body, almost imperceptible. He tried to suppress his reaction, but I was too close to not notice. 

“You'd like the handcuffs, wouldn't you?” Voice deep, almost growling. It worked beautifully.

“Yes,” he nodded eagerly. 

From raging madman to pliable little kitten in the blink of an eye. Oh, the wonders food can do. Food and the promise of handcuffs. I couldn't help a chuckle. It gave me an idea.

“Well, then – undress first.”

He shed his clothes in record-time, for once not caring if they got wrinkled. Naked, he sprawled on the bed. He was a _sight_. Fucking spectacular. Slim, but finely muscled. Treasure trail of dark hairs on his stomach, matching the colour of his facial hair. Slender cock nestled in a tuft of black. On the left hip above it, just like I remembered, set a fading bitemark, brownish-yellow. A darker one shone on the inside of his right thigh. They were the only blemishes on his otherwise perfect skin. I felt my blood flow downward at that view before me.

His eyes raked across my body in return. “You are still wearing that shirt.”

Grinning, I crawled onto the bed, towering over him while I fastened the cuffs around his wrists. “My latest victim's blood, brought home just for you.”

Cheesy thing to say, but the smile on his face was pure delight, genuine, I could see.

“Lie back”. I reached for the bottle of honey. Painted little dribbles all over his body. Where the honey touched, it raised goosebumps on his skin. 

“Sebastian, you are making a mess on the bed.”

“Shut up.” I said it softly, punctuated with a lick at his nipple. With a slight “Hm” he rested back on the pillow and let me continue my work. I swept my tongue over every honey-covered spot, licked it off, drawing in his scent with the sweetness – cool, slightly chalky, a hint of his expensive aftershave, and just the tiniest pang of salt. Soon he couldn't keep quiet any longer, uttering soft moans. I concentrated my licks on his stomach and thigh, not yet touching his cock. Just the tiniest nuzzle to his balls. Just the tiniest scrape of teeth.

The little hairs on his legs stood up when I touched my mouth there. His moans grew louder, more desperate. He began to writhe under me. I kept him still with both hands on his hips. With every swipe and lick he came apart a bit more. My mouth touched the fading bitemark on his thigh. He shivered as I began to suck it. I sank my teeth into the soft flesh in an exact imitation of the former bite, and _bit_ , hard - at the same time I finally gripped his cock and gave it a few firm, slow strokes. His moans became mewls. He couldn't control the trembling in his legs, the jerking of his hips, pushed up into my strokes.

My teeth broke flesh, the sweetness of honey mingled with the metallic taste of blood.

“Oh god, fuck!” he croaked. Finally reaching the profanities. He was more than ready. I grinned up at him, his blood on my lips. I crawled up his body, catching his erection between us. I was hard and throbbing myself. 

“What do you want, Jim?” Laying all the gravel into my voice I could muster.

“You...” It came out strangled. “You... inside me.”

I lowered my mouth to his. His tongue swept over my lips, catching blood, catching honey.

Fingers just wet with spit I worked him open. He didn't need more, didn't want more, wanted cock, not preparation. Still fully dressed, I pulled my length out and slicked it with spit. Bent his legs back till his knees almost met his ears and plunged into him. I fucked him hard and steady, fucked him until he screamed in agony and ecstasy, until I couldn't hold back any longer and came with a shout.

*

Afterwards – the room still a mess with soiled sheets, wrinkled clothes on the floor, milk still dripping from the wall – we lay together. Both sticky with blood and cum and honey, both not giving a damn. Jim cradled his head in my neck, his soft breath tickling my skin. His fingers stroked through my hair. These moments, this few minutes of afterglow... I planted small kisses on his head.

“Sebastian?” he mumbled into my neck.

“Hmh?”

“You will pay for my suit. And for your stunt with the shirt.”

I couldn't help the flutter his words sent to my stomach. Not really apprehension – anticipation.


End file.
